


Smiling Masks Tell No Lies

by Eristastic



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 16:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6335959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eristastic/pseuds/Eristastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Masks are easy, practical things when you never want people to see how ugly you really are.<br/>But clocks strike midnight and masquerades end, and then what do you do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smiling Masks Tell No Lies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valety](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valety/gifts).



> Shaylyn asked for fluff and I can't...I can't just _not_ do a masquerade prompt...
> 
> Anyway, everything I touch turns to angst, but I think I steered it back on track.

It started out as a game.

Well. If one were to insist on things like accuracy and honesty, it actually started out as yet another example of Frisk trying to get a rise out of them, but Chara wouldn’t admit to that. So it started out as a game.

“Tell me you’re joking,” they say, rubbing the next page of their book between their finger and thumb, wondering if they’re going to get to finish it tonight. Frisk certainly doesn’t seem like they’ll let them, especially grinning and shaking their head like that.

“I’m not going.” It’s as simple as that: nothing on earth, heaven or hell is going to get them to go to some stupid masquerade ball. It’s the worst idea they’ve ever heard of, actually. An entire night squeezed into tight clothes and tight ballrooms, surrounded by never-ending streams of people? They’ve heard of refined torture techniques that sound more appealing.

‘ _Don’t be difficult!_ ’ Frisk signs cheerfully, lying back on the sofa opposite Chara’s, swinging their legs in the air idly. ‘ _It’ll be fun!_ ’

“So you said about dance lessons. So you said about etiquette lessons. So you said about that giant garden party which, might I remind you, ended with me fucking fainting in public. So you said about sneaking out past curfew to go to the _red light district_. I’m starting to think you and I have very different definitions of fun.”

Frisks sniffs in a vaguely put out way. ‘ _Clearly. Most people would consider that last one a great time_.’

“We were recognised before you’d even picked somewhere to go, frog-marched back to the palace and then had the delight of explaining to Toriel why her adopted children – supposedly paragons of polished manners and good behaviour – were caught in the brothels. I’m not letting that go.” They drop the book on their chest, running a finger down the spine regretfully, and lament what should have been a peaceful night spent reading if Frisk hadn’t come barging in.

Which they should have expected, really. Frisk always comes barging in.

‘ _At least we weren’t underage!_ ’

“Small blessings. Count yourself lucky we didn’t get caught that time you decided you absolutely had to try out tavern drinking the day before your birthday.”

‘ _It’s the thrill of the thing_ ,’ Frisk nods, like a connoisseur. They probably are, given what they get up to. ‘ _And that’s exactly why you should go to the masquerade!_ ’

“Oh, are we back to that idiotic subject again? How fun. No.” Sliding off the sofa to their feet, they brush down the creases in their clothes (monstrosities of tight laces and form-fitting fabric, but that what’s in _fashion_ , and apparently royal protégés have to be fashionable because just existing in the godforsaken limelight isn’t enough: now they have to suffer for it).

Frisk makes an impatient sound and Chara looks over to catch their signing. ‘ _So what, you’re just going to let this perfect opportunity go?_ ’

“Yes.”

Frisk glares. ‘ _C-H-A-R-A, when else are you going to get the chance to be totally anonymous?_ ’

“Why would I want to be anonymous?!” they throw their arms up, pretending to look through the bookcase as if they have a hope in hell of getting any reading done tonight. “I don’t care! I don’t care about the mystery, I don’t care about the thrill, I don’t care about the dancing or the drinking or the talking: I don’t care about any of it!”

Frisk coughs for attention and Chara turns to them again, not entirely liking their raised eyebrows. ‘ _Do you care about finally making it official with Asriel? Because I do. I care about that. I’d like to be able to walk anywhere in this place without getting choked by sexual tension_.’

 Chara considers throwing a book at their head. It takes a great deal of self-control (and years of anger management lessons, thank you Asgore) not to. They do their breathing exercises, clench their fists a few times, and then shoot a glare with the rage of a thousand suns in Frisk’s direction.

Frisk laughs it off. Of course.

“That’s none of your business,” Chara growls, moving to a different bookcase. It isn’t. Frisk seems intent on making it their business at every turn, but it still _isn’t_. It’s not their business if Chara happens to think that Asriel isn’t a completely awful person to be around. It’s not their business if he happens to have really grown into his body and has somehow managed to turn into the charming prince everyone thought he’d never be, glossy coat and giant horns and all. It’s not their business if Chara happens to have decided not to ever say anything about how warm and safe he makes them feel, ever.

There are some lines they’re not sure they’re ready to cross. Not when they’re who they are – a useless waste of palace space, unable to even hold basic small talk – and he’s who he is.

That’s just how things are. And, just to reiterate, it’s still not Frisk’s business.

Pretending to be absorbed in the bookcase, they pointedly don’t look at Frisk for a few minutes, and it’s only when the pest comes to join them that they bother.

They’ve switched tactics, flashing wide eyes and a sad little pout. ‘ _Please? Please go to the masquerade? It’ll be so much fun…You can dance with him and he won’t even know, and you can kiss him and he won’t even know, and-_ ’

Chara slaps their hands down before they can say anything that might rival the level of stupidity they’ve already hit. Right, because Asriel kissing someone he thinks is a stranger is totally something they want to hear about. Frisk’s an idiot. Well, no: Frisk’s an aggravating minx with half the palace wrapped around their little finger, but it amounts to the same thing.

With a calculated glare, they say, “This _isn’t_ up for debate. I said no, I meant no, I still mean no, and nothing in the world is going to change my mind.”

Frisk pouts, Chara goes back to their books, and that’s that.

In hindsight, they really shouldn’t have underestimated the determination of the child who almost single-handedly allied the monster kingdom with the neighbouring human territories.

 

The masquerade is the worst thing they’ve ever attended. Worse than the tea parties. Worse than the socials they’re forced into (for propriety’s sake, apparently). Worse than that official dinner after the treaties, sitting across from humans for the first time in years. The only comfort they have is that they were, in fact, right, and Frisk was irredeemably wrong about this being ‘fun’.

They stick to the wall as best they can, but even though this is one of the smaller antechambers opening onto the main ballroom (unnecessarily and frivolously big, if they’re any judge, and they are), it’s packed with people. Worse than that, the lights are all low to enhance the so-called mystery, there are velvet curtains draped everywhere, and there’s a heady scent of flowers no matter where you go. It’s better than sweat, admittedly, but Chara still can’t stand it.

They’re about to turn around and go back to their room, cursing Frisk for manipulating them into coming here, but a swarm of people in showy outfits and sparkly masks pushes them into the main room before they can turn around.

This is a nightmare. This has to be a nightmare.

Heart speeding up in their chest, they almost sprint to the far side of the room where there are wall-sized windows that at least give the impression of freedom. Pressing their back against the chilled glass, they watch the dais in the centre of the room. Asriel’s there, looking utterly himself no matter the mask and clothes (masquerades really weren’t designed for monsters, Chara reflects). The sight of him anchors them a bit. Breath by breath, they calm down.

Asgore’s giving some speech or other but they’re too far away to really hear it. The low rumble of indistinguishable words is enough: it’s comforting, and if they concentrate on that and Asriel, they don’t mind the press of bodies so much. They start to take in their surroundings as the anxious flush of panic leaves them.

Around the room, scattered near the walls and on food tables among swathes of thick, shimmering cloth, there are lights: small candles in glass flowers, shining golden and bright like little stars dotting the crowd of guests. Overheard, there are only curtains: they cover the stone ceiling in waves of blue and purple, tied to gold tassels to keep them attached to the walls except where they separate rooms. Right now, they’re all open, but further into the night, when the orchestra has calmed into slow, sugar-sweet songs, they’ll be closed to give privacy to those who want or need it.

Anonymity has its advantages, and people like to indulge in them.

The very idea of anonymity here seems a farce, though. Chara will admit that they might just be being pointlessly derisive because of their own discomfort, but no mask is going to make it difficult to tell one monster from another. Most of the human guests are obvious enough, too: it’s all a game, to them. Pretend you won’t be recognised, pretend you don’t recognise, pretend that neither of you will know.

It’s a game to Chara, too. That’s the only reason Frisk managed to convince them. ‘ _Make it a game_ ’, they told them. ‘ _Act like you’re someone else, someone without all those self-enforced chains you use as convenient excuses not to do things_.’

To which, of course, Chara replied with colour and inventiveness that surprised even them, but it was an idea. A stupid idea, but an idea, and it had wormed its way cheerfully into their mind until it was all they could think of.

‘What if I didn’t have to deal with being me, just for a night?’

‘What if I could actually be someone who deserved him?’

So it’s a game.

With terrifying enthusiasm and a concerning amount of foresight, Frisk had helped them get ready. More tight-fitting clothes they pulled from who-knows-where: tall boots and trousers hanging with thin chains and jewels; a crisp shirt and a jacket cut to flatter their thin shoulders and bound chest, rather than make them look underdeveloped. Dark powder in their hair to slick it back into a ponytail and change the colour into something far more like Frisk’s chocolate than Chara’s natural ruddy brown. A charm, too, to change their eyes from red to brown, which really begged the question as to why Frisk hadn’t just used a charm for the whole thing, but Chara couldn’t be bothered to ask. Magic users would be capricious, and Frisk seemed to enjoy themself.

And then there were more delicate chains around their hair, a circlet around their forehead, and the mask: a black-feathered thing that covers their eyes and curls like claws over their cheeks, sparkling lightly with fake (Chara hopes) onyx. They’ve never felt less like themself.

It’s a little exhilarating, not that they’ll ever tell Frisk that. Not that they need to: they saw the knowing smile beaming back at them when they looked in the mirror.

And so they’re here, at the edges of the room, and not up on the dais with their family. Frisk took care of that too, explaining that Chara was having one of their episodes, that they couldn’t possibly leave the room, couldn’t possibly leave their bed. It wasn’t like Toriel or Asgore had been expecting them to come, but Frisk insisted on a cover story.

‘ _All part of the game_ ,’ they explained gleefully.

Chara wishes half-heartedly that they were here too. At least then it would feel more like one of their bizarre whims rather than something Chara had chosen to do by themself. But it’s too late for that: the speech is over and the guests are mingling, moving towards the tables layered with food and drinks, or migrating to the middle of the room to start dancing as the orchestra warms up with not-quite harmonious chords that soon dissolve into music.

It’s time to put the pieces into play, because it’s easier to think like that than remember that this is actually happening.

They’re not themself. They’re not themself. They breathe out, and in, and out again, and then they move.

Years of deportment lessons keep their back straight and their head up, though they know full well that their hands are shaking: the only sign that they want to curl into a ball and wither away like the fizzing bubbles in the flutes of sweet wine that guests carry around with them. Actually, alcohol doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. They carry themself to a table – covered in an inky blue cloth that glitters in the light – and pick up one of the glasses waiting in rows, almost freezing up and dying on the spot when they manage to bump elbows with a human guest.

Instinct alone pulls them through: they stick on a mechanical smile and apologise in a mechanical voice (too low, too smooth to be theirs), and quickly escape with the wine. It’s too sweet, or not sweet enough: trying to be something it’s not, they think. But the fizz feels good against their tongue, so they keep drinking.

They walk the room, keeping close to the walls and never losing sight of Asriel (not that he’s someone you could easily lose sight of). A thousand different options open up in front of them, all but a few too impossible for them to even consider. They want to get to him, somehow, but walking through the crowd would mean drawing attention to themself, moving closer to him would mean drawing attention to themself: basically everything means drawing attention to themself, and they’re being stared at enough as it is.

Somehow, an hour passes like that, and they find themself by a window again, nowhere closer to him than when they started.

On some level, they’d really love to laugh at their own idiocy. Did they honestly think they could escape themself? Even for a second, did they seriously think they’d be able to pretend they were someone else, someone with confidence and charm, someone without a hundred lifetime’s worth of baggage tied to them? They can’t even walk across a fucking dancefloor.

They want to laugh at themself, because they can feel the rumbling hysteria of one of their episodes gripping them again, and laughter is a damn sight better than having a fit in public. They need to leave.

Abandoning their third empty glass on a nearby table, they slide through the crush of bodies, choking back nausea and trying to keep their eyes focussed on their goal: a small room partially curtained off from the main one, a room that should have a door leading outside so they can finally breathe. Silk and satin shiver across their skin as they pass uncomfortably close by people, too intent on getting out to apologise like they know they should.

Sucking in perfume-soaked air, they burst from the crowd into the smaller room and duck behind thick curtains, leaning against the familiar solidity of stone. But of course they couldn’t be that lucky. The room’s occupied, many times over, and they feel eyes on them like brands searing their skin; judgement and unbearable curiosity burning through multi-coloured masks. Their mouth opens stupidly, ready to stutter or breathe or shout, and then there’s a hand on their wrist.

“Are you alright?”

They freeze and turn their neck and shoulders ( _certain_ that their bones are clicking and whirring like a wind-up doll’s) to stare into familiar eyes, a familiar face even if it is covered by a tawny-feather mask.

It takes them a second to remember that they’re not supposed to be _them_ , here. They’re not supposed to rely on the way Asriel always knows just how to handle them.

“I’m fine, thank you” they say in their not-Chara voice: deep and gravelly and practised on Frisk a hundred times and more to get it sounding natural.

“Are you sure?” His brow is crumpling in concern. “I can take you to get some air, if you need it. It’s kind of stuffy in here.”

They need to make a decision quickly because that’s what not-Chara would do: they’d be calm and collected even when they want to fall into his side and bury their face in his fur and forget all about this. So they nod. With the needle-sharp eyes of other guests piercing them both – with the grainy, echoing sound of violins ringing in Chara’s ears – they head for a balcony off one of the side rooms. It’s not their bedroom, but it’s small and it’s deserted, so Chara supposes they’ll live. For now.

At least the air is fresh here.

They try and keep composed as they lean against the stone balustrade, looking out at the sloping hills behind the palace, the trees washed in moonlight. Asriel joins them, fiddling with his mask.

“Do you mind if I take this thing off?” he asks, frowning at it.

Chara struggles to come up with something completely un-Chara-like to say. “And do away with the mystery?” they settle on. “That’s hardly playing the game.”

“Well.” Asriel looks down at himself pointedly. “I think the game was up for me the second I stepped out onto the stage.”

Chara takes the excuse to look at him a bit longer, now that they’re not a whole room away or buzzing with panic. He’s still unnecessarily tall and strong, still unnecessarily fluffy and soft, still wearing suits unnecessarily well. That’s Asriel for you.

“I don’t mind,” they shrug, and he grins, peeling the mask off over his horns (which just so happen to be decorated in identical chains to the ones on Chara’s hips and boots, and _oh_ , Frisk has some explaining to do).

“Were you having trouble with the crowds?” Asriel asks, leaning over the balustrade next to them even though it’s too low to be comfortable for him. “Oh, I don’t mean to be rude! Only, I have trouble with them sometimes too. Just this urge to,”-he gestures vacantly-, “escape or something. To where people can’t see me anymore.”

“I take it that’s not something you act on often, o crown prince?” They know it’s not: they know he’s worked hard to make sure it’s not, and they know that even his parents don’t realise how much he has to force himself each time. But they keep their voice light and playful, because that’s not how they feel.

“No, not really,” he smiles. “But it’s all in the illusion, right? You pretend you don’t feel a thing because that’s how it’s done. I guess honesty’s overrated anyway.”

Hearing him say that – the kid who couldn’t even answer ‘How are you?’ with the expected ‘I’m well’ if he wasn’t – Chara can’t stop themself from laughing. It’s a short, hoarse thing that rings far too much of themself, but they stop before that becomes too obvious.

“Maybe you’re right,” they say to cover it up. “I certainly don’t think I’d want to exist in the same world as half of these people if they were utterly honest.”

Well, they don’t want to exist in the same world, honesty or not, but that’s beside the point. And Asriel’s smiling at them, so most things feel beside the point anyway.

“No taste for high society?”

“Or low society.”

He laughs, leaning closer to them until their arms almost brush together. “So I take it you wouldn’t be interested in going in to dance?”

“I think I’d rather remove my own legs, but I appreciate the thought.”

He’s still smiling, as if he genuinely thinks they’re funny. His eyes are shining and it’s so distracting that they can barely remember that they’re supposed to be acting. How are they supposed to not be themself around him?

“That’s fair,” he nods. “Come to think of it, I haven’t asked your name yet.”

“Neither have I: I thought we were both showing exemplary self-restraint.”

“But you _know_ mine,” he points out. “I don’t mind if you give me a fake name.”

They roll their eyes. “Then what’s the point?”

“Don’t you want to come up with something to call yourself for tonight?”

“Not really,” Chara shrugs, brushing gravel off the undersides of their sleeves. “It’s not as if the anonymity they’re all flaunting here actually means anything. Anyone with half a brain could tell who’s who, especially if they end up fucking. Quite frankly, I’d worry about anyone who _couldn’t_ work out the identity of someone they sleep with just because they’ve got a mask on.”

Asriel nods like he’s actually considering their answer seriously, like he really thinks it’s worth it. “Cynical,” he says approvingly. “But isn’t the fun of the game in that you pretend you don’t know, even when you do?”

“Would that be fun for you?”

“I think so.”

They sniff in distaste. “Sounds pointless.”

“Maybe,” he smiles, tilting his head so his chains sparkle in the light. “Just think of it as the illusion of honesty everyone wears, but used for entertainment. If we’re going to have to lie about everything to keep up good relations _anyway_ , why not have fun with it?”

“Because the illusion of honesty is something people use to survive. Some of us would prefer to escape it.” They want to clamp their teeth down on their tongue, stop themself from saying things they really, truly mean, but they know they’ve already made too many mistakes already: it hardly matters, they think bitterly. They can’t not be them. They’re stuck forever like this.

“Something you use to survive?” Curious, but worried, like he can sense their crackling discomfort.

“When being honest would make people hate you, make them unable or unwilling to help you, then you lie to survive,” they grin without a trace of amusement in their body. “Maybe it sounds overly dramatic, but-”

“No! No, that’s…that’s okay. I understand. Or, I can’t, not really, but I think I see.” He nods thoughtfully, his forehead creased. “But, if you don’t like the mystery, why are you here?”

Why _are_ they here? To make a mess of themself, again? To pretend they’re someone they’re not, as if that’ll mean anything when the clock strikes midnight and they’re back to being the royal disappointment? To borrow fake confidence, trying to act like they could ever bring themself to be with Asriel, like they are now? To try and persuade themself they’re the type of person who can flirt and court without drowning in the bitter bile of ‘you’re worthless: you could never deserve him’?

Just to please Frisk?

They shake their head as if to clear it, adjusting their stiff collar as they straighten up. “To try something new,” they say distantly. “It didn’t work. Excuse me.”

Their boots scrape the stone as they turn, walking to the glass doors and already mapping out the way back to their room, but then for the second time that night his hand is on their wrist and they’re obliged to stop. Regardless of his strength, they’d have stopped for him.

“Chara, don’t.”

They’re not even surprised, but they feel they should ask. For the sake of the ‘game’. “How did you know?”

“Do you honestly think I wouldn’t know?” Disappointment is laced in his voice. “I’d recognise you anywhere, Chara. I thought…I thought you just wanted to play-act or something. I wanted to, too.”

In front of anyone else, they’re sure they’d feel like an idiot. They’re sure the self-loathing would boil and overflow in their veins, cracking through their bones and splitting their flesh. They’re sure of that, but with him all they feel is numbness. His company doesn’t breed humiliation, somehow. But they still won’t look at him.

“Why?” they ask hollowly.

“You know why!” There’s disbelief, there’s hurt, and they really don’t want to turn around to see it all painted on his face. He never was good at hiding his emotions.

Around them.

“I don’t, Asriel. I really don’t, so just let me go and we can pretend this never happened. That’s the way the game’s played, right?”

“This isn’t a game to me,” he says, growling in his exasperation. “I thought it would be easier for you, okay? When I saw you across the room, when I realised it was you, I thought this was your way of working up courage or something! How was I to know you just wanted to play around?”

“I didn’t!” They whirl around unthinkingly and take his head in their hands, rubbing thumbs along the thick fur of his jaw. “I didn’t, I didn’t, that’s not what this is, I swear, Asriel, I fucking swear I never meant for that…” The words come out in a rush of panic and croaked whispers.

“Then what’s the _problem_?” he asks, his eyes still shining too much as he puts his hands protectively over theirs.

“There are just…there are things.”

“Things.”

Chara nods. “Things.”

Things: the difference between being suitable and being unacceptable. The rigid, tight feeling of seeing him on a podium, in a council room, surrounded by ambassadors and negotiators, and knowing there are boundaries that can’t be crossed. The crisp mask of groans and sighs as they pretend it doesn’t matter – the role comes easily to them, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t weigh on their face, stiffening up the skin like marble.

There are things, so many things that no little game was ever going to be able to break them all down. Chara should have known better.

But they don’t say any of that. After a gaping silence, Asriel frowns and sighs softly. “Look, Chara, I’m really confused and I’m kind of worried by a lot of what you’re saying, so let’s just…on three, we both say exactly what we need to, okay?”

“That sounds like the worst idea I’ve ever heard of, rivalling even me coming to this stupid masquerade, and somehow I’m not surprised you came up with it.”

He hits their nose with his, sort-of-but-not-really angrily. “Shush now. Okay, ready?”

“No?”

“Excellent. Right, one, two, three: I love you and I’m really worried you don’t love me back the same way.”

At the same time, driven by his momentum, Chara says, “I love you, but you’re about ten miles out of my league and I never want to impose something like me on you.”

They both look at each other. Chara feels like death would be really quite welcome, at this point in time.

(They try to ignore the flutters of hope that he might be telling the truth and meaning it.)

“What?” Asriel’s hands are tight on theirs, his claws digging into their skin, but his face is just weak disbelief. “I…what? Chara, what are you talking about? Out of your league? We _are_ still talking about me, right?”

They squash down the urge to roll their eyes. “ _Yes_.”

He frowns, but his grip gets a little looser. “Okay. Let me just run this through. You – probably the most beautiful person out there, definitely the coolest, absolutely the one I’ve been star-struck by for actual years – think that-”

“Wait, objection: that doesn’t sound a thing like me.” They say it in a monotone, trying valiantly to ignore how the stupid, childish idiot really is giving them hope again. They’d carefully and systematically got rid of all that years earlier: they don’t need him undoing their hard work.

“Well that _is_ you, so I hope you get used to it.”

“Unlikely.”

“Chara!” It’s a pretty little mix of a sigh and a laugh, and they drink it down thirstily, hoping the darkness managed to hide the flash of desperation they know just crossed their face.

“Chara,” he repeats, a little more calmly, moving them both to sit on the balustrade (a practical move, Chara thinks distantly). “Can you just explain this to me? Why on earth would you think…”

“Well, I mean,” they say, finally tugging their hands away from him so they might actually have access to basic cognitive functions, “you’re the prince. We’re agreed on that, at least? Good. So you’re the pride and joy of the palace, right? I’m the royal fuck-up. It just isn’t _done_ ,” they sneer the word, “to mix the two.”

“How are you the royal fuck-up?” he scowls, the anger hitting hard enough that Chara can almost feel themself freeze up until he realises what he’s doing and stops. Calmer, he says, “Reasonably speaking, Frisk is a much bigger troublemaker than you, you know.”

“Aha!” They lift a finger, already feeling themself slip into the old friend, Sarcastic but Cheerful #2. “A good point, but with several fatal flaws!”

“Chara, can we not do this: can you just be-”

“Frisk, you see, might be a troublemaker, but they also fulfil all their responsibilities and everyone loves them! I, on the other hand-”

“Chara!” He tugs their hand back out of the air and looks at them, pleading. “Stop, _please_. Don’t close up on me: just listen, okay? Nobody thinks of you like that. Nobody but you. I know it’s difficult to imagine, but really, no one does. _I_ certainly don’t. I don’t think you’re an objectively great person or anything, but that doesn’t make a difference to how I feel about you.”

They don’t have an answer for that: it would just be more protests, more spiralling exasperation until he grows to hate them. They keep their mouth closed.

Quietly, a breeze begins to pick up around the two of them, blowing their hair and his fur, but neither suggests moving out of the way. For a long time, there’s just the sound of muffled laughter and music, squeezing through the steamed-up glass to mock them.

“Can you take your mask off?” Asriel asks eventually in a small voice. “It’s…weird, talking to you with that on.”

Obediently, with stiff fingers, they pull it off and hold it in their lap. For a second, he looks at them.

“You really are beautiful, you know.”

Their teeth crush together.

“Before…” he looks down at the old paving stones and the worn design engraved in them. “Before, you said you lie to survive. I think…I think I sort of knew that. I knew some of it. I’m not completely oblivious: I know that you freeze up, that you revert back to instincts and all when you can’t handle things. I know that, and that’s…it’s not _fine_ , but I don’t mind. That’s you, so I really don’t mind. But – and don’t answer if you can’t: I was just wondering – but…how honest have you been with me?”

They don’t reply. He takes it as their answer and nods. Bringing their hand to his mouth slow enough that they can slip it away whenever they choose, he presses a kiss to each finger. “It’s okay. I don’t mind. I can’t…I can’t really _stop_ loving you at this point, so don’t worry about it.”

Chara closes their eyes and breathes.

“More.”

“What?” Understandably, he looks perplexed.

“Around you, I’m…more honest. It’s easier. Like with Frisk, it’s just…easier. And…all of this,” they gesture to their clothes, “was because I didn’t want that. Honestly, I don’t think I can be with you. Because I’m like this. But I thought I could dishonestly. That’s why. It didn’t work. I can’t…I can’t not be me.”

It’s a horrifying admission for them, but he’s smiling like they’re the most precious thing in the world. “Good thing I only love you, then.” Fragility crosses his expression, and he asks, “Do…do you really not think you can be with me?”

They shake their head, wincing at the disappointment he tries to hide. “But you think so,” they say quietly. “And that’s got to count for something.”

They’re not sure they’ve ever seen a flood of happiness wash over his expression like this one does, changing everything until there’s only hope and joy and love left in his helpless smile.

“It does,” he says firmly, laughter tingeing the edges of his voice. “And you love me?”

They nod, and they’re utterly unprepared for how he hugs them then: standing and lifting them up like they’re nothing but paper, wrapping his arms under their thighs to keep them at his height as their mask clatters to the ground.

“Then there’s nothing to worry about!” he says happily, nuzzling into the side of their neck.

“Yes there is? There’s so much to worry about!”

But their protests are just the standard: a flimsy wall built up to show willing and nothing more, to pretend that they don’t feel hope swirling in their chest, because he loves them, and he doesn’t seem to care, and he’s so happy, and he loves them, and he seems to think it’s all so simple, and he loves them, he loves them, he loves them-

And maybe they were wrong.

It wouldn’t be the first time. They wrap their arms around his neck, letting a laugh slip from between their teeth as he keeps turning the two of them around in a mock-waltz under the light of the moon and stars. It’s all so endearingly idiotic. He’s even humming along to the music they can hear coming from the orchestra: vibrations at the base of their throat as he kisses along it, too caught up in his own happiness to hold the tune properly.

So maybe they were wrong.

The last remnants of their fixed, carved shield breaks away as they laugh properly – an ugly sound, raucous and sharp in an otherwise beautiful night – and they grin as he moves back from their neck to smile at them. There’s nothing left now, nothing but his eyes and his smile and they’re here, just as them, and he doesn’t mind.

“I love you,” he says as if the feel of it in his mouth delights him, and then they kiss him. Making a keening, desperate sound, he pulls them closer to him and kisses them back.

In the back of their mind, they can almost hear Frisk saying ‘I told you so’ already.

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of late, but [here are some Chara designs, for the outfit and mask](http://eristastic.tumblr.com/post/141603526212/sort-of-conceptual-stuff-for-this-masquerade-fic-i).


End file.
